


Sententiae

by kristophine



Category: The Apple-Tree Throne
Genre: M/M, first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristophine/pseuds/kristophine
Summary: It is progress, I believe. I have reached a point at which I can stand to look at the pages of text, narrow and cramped, and the small bleeding-black pictures that accompany them, and parse them for their meaning.
Relationships: wickersley/braddock
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	Sententiae

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty sure I'm the first person to write fanfic for The Apple-Tree Throne, which you can get for Kindle and should REALLY read, so boom! Here's some Ghost Feels! Beta'd by queuelessness.

_Have you considered taking up the pen? Writing something, perhaps even of interest to others?_

I lift my head. I’ve been perusing the evening newspaper; if I am very good, and quite careful, I can stretch it into an hour or two of what we may as well call entertainment. Something to do with myself other than watch the radioviz, which is crackling happily to itself in the corner, making noises that are nearly identical to the sound of the flames from the fireplace.

It is progress, I believe. I have reached a point at which I can stand to look at the pages of text, narrow and cramped, and the small bleeding-black pictures that accompany them, and parse them for their meaning. I might attribute this improvement to any number of things—the weather is changing and I have found an appreciation for the quiet, claustrophobic qualities of winter. Snow has begun to fall. It falls grey here, close to the factories. In the luminous maroon nights when the sky does not know what to do with the reflected light from the city, this neighborhood keeps more of the dark than the others.

Wickersley, sitting in the chair on the other side of the fire, is watching me.

“I can’t say that I have,” I answer briskly, shaking out the paper with a snap. “Why do you ask?”

_It would be something to do._

“I can’t deny that.”

_You’re bored._

“I am not bored.”

That is his favorite chair. It has been over these past four weeks of cohabitation, since he first came in through the window and sat down. I have not asked him why he prefers it; I wonder, from time to time, whether he is becoming accustomed to its corporeality, and whether it is easier for him to sit in that chair now that he is used to it. He is habitually more physical in that particular chair than elsewhere, and has gone from needing to balance gingerly in it to being able to approximate something resembling a comfortable sprawl.

_You are so very weary of this humdrum repetition that you are making my teeth grind._

“You don’t _have_ teeth anymore,” I say, spitefully, grimly aware as I speak that I am descending to an unconscionable level of puerility.

_Figure of speech, Braddock._

“I am perfectly content!” I fear I ruin the statement with the tone.

He sniffs pointedly and does not reply. In some rights, he was more manageable when he was newly dead. As he has gained experience with being a ghost, he has regained some of his old high-handed ways.

I _am_ weary, and I am bored, and he has no right to comment on it.

I cannot begin to imagine what else I could do. In a technical sense, certainly. I could seek employment, and I should. Only it is so hard to force my own hand to it when there is no need, at present, and the winter is very cold outside, and inside I have the tremendous work of getting out of bed and getting dressed every single day.

What had been a time-consuming ritual has, of late, been getting simpler. Perhaps this is what it looks like to recover from war; perhaps I, too, will at some point go without thinking of the war all day long, and only start at some reminder, the sound of a whip cracking too much like a gunshot.

 _You need an occupation,_ Wickersley grumbles. He has retrieved the portions of the newspaper that I have discarded and is reading them; he fades somewhat when he is not paying attention, and creates the impression of an image made from smeared wet paint on glass.

“I will acquire one when I am quite ready.”

_You should acquire a new shirt._

He has a point there; my wardrobe remains essentially what it was on the day I moved my belongings into his rooms.

“Fine. I’ll go out for one tomorrow.”

 _Good,_ says Wickersley, quite obnoxiously self-satisfied.

He has not slipped and called me _Ben_ again since that first night when he found my new digs. I have not inquired of him as to how he _did_ find me; perhaps it was the trip to the cemetery, perhaps he was able to follow my ethereal trail back to this relentlessly mundane flat.

It is much less mundane now that it is haunted, but that is not the kind of thing that the neighbors seem likely to notice. Wickersley is a considerate ghost, no longer knocking things over simply because he can or howling or dripping ectoplasmic blood. Indeed, he has become something of a fixture about the place. When night falls—early, at this point in the year; quite early, and will shortly be turning the other direction—he simply arrives. Some nights he squeezes through the window, but most he appears in his chair. His neck is quite whole, no traces of spattered blood remain, and he looks like any respectable chap might, sitting before a fire, except that he does still wear his uniform and I, at least, am in civvies.

I have no idea what to do with him.

I might have thought—but there, it does no good to wonder; he is here in my home, and that will be enough, because it will have to be enough.

I stay awake rather late at night, but have not quite shifted my schedule so as to be nocturnal; around two o’clock I rise from my chair, ready to attempt sleep.

“I’ll go shopping tomorrow for a shirt.”

_More than one, perhaps, Braddock. You could do with a wardrobe fit for some sort of professional man._

“We shall see what enticing wares the shops have to offer.” I am being sarcastic because I dislike that he is entirely correct. I know, of course, that I will rely upon Clark and Vic to tell me where I should purchase clothing. Clark certainly looks like a regular fellow since our return. I have taken up less of their time, of late, and they seem somewhat concerned by this.

It would be difficult to explain that I sleep better knowing there is a ghost in my sitting-room, particularly one who demands that I bring him dimestore novels and watches the radioviz with the sound turned quite low, long after I myself retire.

He is no writer, himself. His diary, trespassed upon the once, only revealed a dry listing of daily events. No hidden whispers of romance, no stray passing thoughts upon his alleged betrothed; what a disappointment, to find that vacancy, and at the same time, what a relief.

I am not quite certain why he thinks I should attempt authorship. He may have a point; it may force my mind to other occupations, if only to avoid it.

My day is more exciting than most, and while I am loathe to admit it, there is something invigorating about going out with a purpose. There has been a growing impulse to action. It feels rather like a nerve that has been damaged and slowly heals: itching, painful, tingling—but alive.

My leg accepts the day’s efforts with few complaints. Twinges, here and there, but no longer the white-hot wire of a month ago. I have not returned to see a doctor, but I imagine they would be pleased. Vic, who assists me in my search, smiles at me often, and with some bafflement.

I engage her in chat about the day’s news. None of it is important. We muddle through the day, and I return home with enough new clothing for a respectable clerk.

I pretend I am not waiting for nightfall, but of course I am. I have even been vain enough to put on the new clothes. The radioviz has a song-and-dance show that is quite the hit, and when the sun sets I have forgotten to wait intently; still, there’s no surprise in the way Wickersley solidifies out of the air.

 _Good evening,_ he says, sitting back. He crosses one ankle over the other knee and rests his hand on it, debonair far past the bitter end.

“Good evening.”

 _That’s considerably better._ He flicks the fingers of his other hand at me in a gesture that encompasses the new togs. _You look less like a hermit._

“I am still something of a recluse.”

 _Oh, I’m aware._ He flashes me a smile. _One might think you resented the effort of leaving your flat._

“But I do.”

He laughs. I remember his laugh too well, from those long months in the desert. Nothing for a young officer to do except think, and think I had. I thought about his laugh and his voice and his face until sometimes it seemed there was nothing left in the world but our fearless, ludicrous leader. It was better, if there was nothing left but that.

“Anything interesting to report?” I ask. Some days there is; some days he will tell me, in less tightly constrained sentences than when he first revealed the shadow-world of his daytime hours. He has not said anything more about leaving this world. I have not asked.

 _No,_ he says, rather pensively. _I tried to go to Rome._

He has been practicing, here and there, to see how far he can get; come nighttime, evidently, he snaps back to my flat like an apple tossed into the air falling to earth. The shadow-world seems to be laid out the same as our own. He made it across the Channel not long ago, and is trying for grander scale yet. (He said to me, when describing it, _If I have to be dead, at least I’d like to see a bit of the world, you know._ This stance seemed eminently reasonable.)

“Any luck?”

_I didn’t quite clear the Channel this time. At least my feet get wet in that world._

“Oh, do they?” I ask, with some interest. “You interact with material things, there?”

 _I interact with material things here,_ he says with a snort, patting the arm of his chair firmly. It makes a faint noise, a faded echo of a human hand.

“Yes, but you don’t _feel_ the water, do you?”

 _What are you now, a scientist?_ he asks, but there is no bite in it.

“It’s only natural to be curious. To the best of my knowledge, no one who has lived with a ghost has yet written a monograph on the subject.”

 _Then perhaps you should be the first._ He makes a face. _Can’t say as I appreciate the thought of being a test case._

“Indeed,” I murmur. As yet I haven’t gotten up to get the paper from where it lies in a neat bundle by the door; I kicked it inside on my way out, but it is unread. “There must be other things to write about.”

_So you’re considering it?_

“Strictly as a hobby, old chap.”

 _Good,_ he says, rather bewilderingly, and then, _Are you going to read the paper?_

“Yes, yes.” I lever myself up out of my chair. “Give me a moment.”

He could fetch it himself, but I prefer to read it first, and that is the arrangement we have settled into without ever talking about it.

He has not, since that first night, called me Ben, nor has he wept, nor touched my cheek; we stayed up all that night, talking like new fast friends, and by the next night when he returned it was as though it had all been papered over. I keep hunting to see the remnants of that under the smooth, calm, gentlemanly discussions with my ghost, but it is quite gone.

I begin, in the afternoon hours when I am out of bed and dressed but not out in the world, to attempt to write.

My attempts are laborious and slow. They are, at times, shockingly painful. I find it difficult, faced with a blank page and a pen, to begin to capture anything at all. And so instead of the stories I half-plan, frivolous little things like I used to enjoy, I find myself writing fragments about the war.

 _You should get a typewriter,_ says Wickersley.

“Bit of a waste for my use only, don’t you think?”

Wickersley shrugs. _It would be easier._

“But an expenditure. I’m not working.”

 _So work,_ he says. _Or sell something you write._

“Now that’s a pipe dream.”

Nevertheless, I do manage to write a short story about a soldier. Writing it feels absolutely dreadful, like scraping my nerves raw. I cannot discern any meaningful plot. I send it to a magazine. The idea of their eyes on it destroys my peace of mind; I cannot sleep for days.

It is accepted. I stare in blank amazement at the cheque.

 _I do believe I told you so,_ says Wickersley, smug.

I use it to purchase a typewriter. I had learned, somewhat, to type in the military; this is only a little different. The noises alarm me at first, and soon recede into the background.

The days have turned, and Christmas is long past, by the time I decide to celebrate my newfound small, but noticeable, income.

I purchase a nicer grade of brandy. I already possess a glass, at home; several, in fact, I believe smuggled in by Vic, who had visions of being entertained at my flat. I have treated myself to a few smallish glasses when the idea occurs to me to take a bath. It is a cold afternoon, gray and dreary, and I _do_ have a bath of my own, although it is both narrow and deep. It is copper—the newer taste for enamel has not yet permeated this starkly efficient little flat—and I happily crank on the tap, waiting for it to fill with scalding hot water. This is a luxury, since the war, and may always be.

When it is ready I strip out of my clothes and climb in, taking care to set my brandy where it may be readily retrieved.

I have no excuse for not noticing the passing of time. I am half-drunk, but only half; I am still quite in command of my faculties, enjoying the to and fro of the water, the small waves and ripples I make when I move. The heat sinks into my bones, and my leg’s aches smooth out into an uninterrupted sea of calm. It is blissful.

I had set a candle up when I climbed in, as the room was not bright. And so when Wickersley walks in through the solid, closed door—he does take pains, now, to walk more often, I think to set me at ease—he and I blink at each other in mutual startlement.

His mouth opens. There is a moment where he might say something, and then turn and leave, like any fellow who has interrupted another’s bath.

But he doesn’t, and his eyes—his gaze moves down, moves up again, over my body. As if the view were remarkable.

In that silence, weighted with words that could be said but aren’t, I give the smallest nod, and he drifts towards me, quite as if he can’t help it. There is something, bright and wild as electricity, under my skin. I have felt very little like this since returning from the war, and yet, and yet: my body is waking up. Where my shoulders are out of the water, goosebumps form.

He kneels by the side of the tub, and we stare at each other for a few moments, still without speaking. If I had doubts—well.

He reaches out and lets his fingers skim the surface of the water. And where his fingers touch, the water does move. Not, perhaps, as much as it would for my own flesh. But unmistakably, there is a ripple.

I tip my head back. I have not been _seduced_ in a very long time.

He hesitates, at the end of that motion. He visibly contemplates the next step. But it is as obvious to him as it is to me, and so he does what I half-expect, half-dread: his fingers brush up, over my arm, my shoulder, trail up my neck to the corner of my jaw.

No. It is not like being touched by a lover. _And yet._

I hear the noise I make. It is very quiet, in this stillness, with only the sound of my breathing; he does not need to breathe at all.

 _Please,_ he says.

“What do you mean?” I choke out, only a little rusty. I put my hand up, to rest over his, on my shoulder, but of course my hand goes right through his and I am left with my own solid, warm skin.

_Please touch yourself._

Oh. Well, that is—that is a request I can do something about, isn’t it? And my body is in complete agreement, at a full stand since he crossed the room that was a Rubicon.

I reach, beneath the water, feeling the warm small ripples of each movement, and take myself in hand, and he says, _Oh, please. Please._ It feels half like taking him; one’s commanding officer shouldn’t beg, but then, he shouldn’t be here, at all, and since he _is,_ since he is kneeling by the bath, forgetting the now-trivial law of gravity so that his knees don’t touch the floor, then it is only reasonable to hold off on how fast I move until his teeth grind in frustration.

He will not sweat, I know; I think he cannot do what I do now, giving in to temptation, moving faster and faster until I spasm, hips bucking beneath the water, keening faintly under my breath. Subtlety was important in the GRoB. It is less so now.

 _Oh, God,_ he says, reverent; his fingers brush my hair, not quite enough to push a stray fast-growing lock from off my forehead, but enough for me to feel. _You’re lovely._

“Lovely?” I manage a laugh, exhausted though I am, now, in the glittering afterglow. “Bollocks.”

_Those, too._

I laugh out loud, a rather inglorious honk, and cut a fine spray of water at him with my hand. “Rubbish! Come now. You’ve seen yourself.”

 _Not lately._ He withdraws a bit, smiling at me.

“Well,” I murmur. I heave myself up, standing, out of the water. “You were always terribly handsome, you know.”

_And now?_

“Haven’t changed a lick.”

_You flatter me._

“Intentionally, I assure you.”

He laughs, the noise like a bright ringing bell. _You always were a smooth one._

“How would you know? I was the very _picture_ of chastity in the field.”

_Some picture._

“All right, I was a well-intentioned celibate _most_ of the time.”

_Except for any occasion when you had an opportunity._

“Were you watching me?” I ask with a chuckle, having pulled the plug and letting my (now somewhat less pristine) bathwater drain away.

There’s a moment’s pause, and I glance over at him in time to surprise the expression on his face.

 _Oh, I expect I was,_ he says at length, rather heavily.

“I say.” I haven’t anything to follow that up.

_Can’t precisely make requests of one’s men, you know. Bad form. Jolly bad form._

“Good thing for us form doesn’t have much to do with it anymore,” I murmur, toweling off.

_Yes. I suppose I’m as lucky as I might have hoped to be._

“Oh, not quite that, surely.”

_Not quite that._

“If—” but I know better than to say such a thing, and I drown the thought mid-sentence. “At any rate, I don’t suppose I could ask for a similar performance.”

He freezes, frowning down at his incorporeal form. _I think not,_ he says, but not like someone who is completely certain.

“Well, some time, perhaps, you’ll try.”

 _Some time,_ he echoes.

After pulling on my dressing-gown, I hesitate; there is my accustomed chair, and there is his, and somehow the distance between us is already re-forming, like smoke over a grim dawn.

“Theo,” I say impulsively.

He pauses, halfway into settling into his chair. _Yes?_

There is no sofa, no chaise longue; no convenient settee for the two of us to sit upon. But still.

“Sit with me.”

He hesitates, considering it, visibly.

“Please,” I add.

He gives in, drifting to settle by my knees as I sit, leaning back to rest his head against my thigh. I run my fingers through his hair, approximately. The feeling is light and unsettling, like brushing through a spider-web.

 _You’ll tire of me,_ he says at length.

I am still sipping my brandy. “Oh, will I?”

_I’m not alive, Ben. You know that._

“Be rather hard to miss.”

_You’ll want someone who is._

“No need to borrow trouble,” I murmur, taking another sip.

_You are unbelievable. Impervious to reason._

“And you’re impervious to death, so I suppose we’re rather even, aren’t we?”

He laughs helplessly. _You know precisely what I’m trying to tell you._

“Yes, and I’m evading it quite skillfully, don’t you think?” I shake open the paper and it cracks pleasingly. I return my free hand to his hair. “We’ll cross that Styx when we come to it.”

 _You’ll forget me,_ he says, but less wistfully.

“That’s a risk one simply must take with any lover, isn’t it? Oh, look, we’ve lost the match with Devonshire.”

_You’re exasperating._

“Makes it a touch less likely you’ll forget me. Now, come, darling, don’t you want me to read the news to you?”

He melts back against me, to the extent that he drifts half-through my leg. The contact tingles.

 _Very well,_ he says at length. I risk a glance at his face and find he is smiling, eyes closed. _Tell me what’s in the paper, dearest._

It is not, in any sense, a traditional home; but for the time, one might suggest it might be a happy home, nonetheless. And if we are doomed—whether by my accused penchant for the living over the dead, or how he may yet learn to leave the shadow world, or only by how much longer the days do get in the summer and how absent hearts may grow amnesiac—then it is easier, surely, having learned once that we are impermanent and intangible, than to have to learn that lesson anew with each love.


End file.
